In the Darkness Bind Them
by Eltea
Summary: Many authors feel that they know their characters, that their characters are practically real people. However, this one is determined to make her Lord of the Rings fanfic work exactly the way she wants it to, and her main character isn't so pleased.
1. Prologue

I'm a character.

That's right, a character. You're probably pretty familiar with me. You read about my kind all the time, and many of you probably use me pretty often.

I don't have a name yet, and I'm not quite sure of my history. Those'll depend on my story - they're up to my author. What I do know is that I have brown eyes, frizzy red-orange hair, and I'm kinda plain, but if you think that makes me ugly - well, you can go to hell.

_No! Don't say that! That's not a nice word!_

Who the hell's talking to me?

_Stop cursing!_

First tell me who you are!

_I'm your author._

Finally, my author's here! So what's my story going to be, I wonder?

_You come from the land of Middle Earth, where—_

Wai-wai-wait. Middle Earth? That's not yours. That's Tolkien's. You can't take it.

_Yes I can. He's dead; he won't mind. Besides, I'm writing a fanfic._

A fanfic? Oh, God, save me!

_Not God. Eru. He's the supreme power in Middle Earth._

Please, oh, please, don't make me come from Middle Earth. Please? Will she listen? …Damn. No good.

_Stop cursing!_

I'll curse whenever I damn well please. Are you going to start your stupid fanfic now?

_It won't be stupid. And yes. To begin with, we can't have you looking like that._

What the hell is wrong with my appearance?

_You're not pretty enough._

Damn you!

_I'm your author. It's up to me. Why are you so obnoxious? I meant my heroine to be sweet and gentle and kind!_

Oh, _your_ heroine, am I? I belong to you, do I? Well, yes, _master_, I'll just adjust every facet of my entire being to make _your_ stupid fanfic work the way _you_ want it to.

_To begin with, brown is an extremely boring eye color. No half-elven princess has brown eyes._

No. I refuse to be an elf. I hate elves.

_I think… hm… what would be pretty…_

Did you hear me, woman? I said I refuse to be an elf!

_Ooh, purple! That should be nice!_

No! Purple is stupid! I absolutely refuse to— OW! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING TO ME?!

_I'm changing your eye color._

WELL IT HURTS, DAMMIT, SO STOP!

_There. Now you have beautiful, deep violet eyes. All the guys will love them. But we'll have to fix that hair of yours._

No. Oh, no, you don't. I like my hair.

_Don't be silly._

I'm not being silly! Can't I have frizzy orange hair? What's wrong with it?

_It's ugly. And it clashes with your eyes._

Well, it _didn't_ when they were _brown_!

_Here, let me make it longer. And that frizz has to go - curls are better - and… yes, I think silver should be a nice color._

OW! OW! OW! STOP THAT! I'LL KILL YOU!

_There. And let me dress you… hm… a long, flowing, violet-blue dress to bring out your eyes… with silver embroidery to match your hair…_

You expect me to walk around normally in an ankle-length dress?

_I expect you to fight in it. You are an eleven warrior princess, after all._

My jaw drops. She's got to be kidding me. Now, I'm not bad at fighting - especially hand-to-hand combat; I'm tough enough to club people down - but fighting in a _dress_? And AUGH! What's happening to me? I'm getting all - all spindly! My waist is going to snap with the weight of my upper body! There can't be room for more than half a stomach in there!

_You don't need a big stomach, anyway. You eat like a bird._

I beg to differ. I eat like a pig. Like a pig after a ten-year famine.

_No, you don't. And here, take this elegant elven bow and this knife._

That's Sting. It belongs to Bilbo, and later Frodo.

_No, it isn't. It's a different blade. It's called Serenity._

_Serenity?_ Gag me!

_It glows blue when orcs are near._

That's Sting.

_No, it isn't. Yours does too._

But Frodo's is supposed to be special!

_Frodo has other things to make him special._

I guess he does have the Ring, but still—

_OH YEAH! That reminds me! I have to give you your ring!_

My ring? For a minute, I pause. She's probably talking about some stupid extra lost ring that has great powers and will shift the focus of the story further away from Frodo - who's Frodo? Oh yeah, the _main character_… - and give me all sorts of supernatural elf-princess powers. But maybe - just maybe - I barely dare imagine it.

A wedding ring?

I try not to think it, but the daydreams slip in before I can stop them - a little cabin in the mountains, safe under the shadow of a cliff, perhaps by a little lake, surrounded by redwood trees… I'm sitting on the porch swing, my - I try out the word - my husband - is next to me, his arm is around my shoulders… He's - he's laughing, chatting with me… He shows me a little scrap of wood, he's whittled it into the shape of a heart… A couple kids are scampering around, playing with some rocks that they've decided are people… The four of us, our family, we're planning to have a simple dinner, listen to our son proudly show off the empty bird's nest he found that day and tell us how he got it, listen to our daughter pick out some simple tunes on the flute my husband carved for her on her birthday…

If I had a home like that to come back to, going off on an adventure might not be so bad. I guess I could help the Fellowship. It would be okay. And then once the adventure was over, I'd hurry home to the arms of my family…

_Married? You've got to be kidding me!_

The sound of her voice startles me, jarring my fragile daydreams out of my hands, where they fall to the ground and shatter.

_It is NOT a wedding ring. It's one of the rings of power. Sauron didn't know that the Maiar made another ring after he made his. This one kind of cancels out the One Ring - because you're wearing it, the One Ring can't hurt you, and…_

I'm not even listening anymore. I don't even care. I stare off into space dully, wondering if I can just make myself vanish. Character suicide. She'd find a better character, wouldn't she? One with a sweet face and a gentle personality and a brave heart to save Middle Earth, and I'd be left in the character graveyard. Poor, stupid failure character.

_What's wrong?_

Do you even care?

_Oh, is this about the love interest thing? Well don't worry, you're going to HAVE one, I just don't want you to be married at the start of the story._

I perk up my ears just a little, though I know I shouldn't trust her. You can't kill hope, no matter how hard you try.

Will he be nice? I want to know. Will he be patient enough to put up with me? Will he want kids?

_Hold up! Let me describe him. I'm still trying to finalize the decision, but I'm thinking Legolas. You know who he is, right?_

Legolas… name ringing a bell somewhere… oh, the pretty-boy elf?

_He's GORGEOUS. And he's really, really good at archery. And he's really noble and brave and—_

But is he nice? And will he want to settle down and have kids?

_I don't know. Stop being so picky, okay?_

I'm not being picky! I don't care about all those things you listed, I just want him to be nice and to want kids!

_I don't know if he does. You'll just have to find out. But you'll like him. He's really handsome. And he'll like you. You're beautiful._

I glance in a mirror - yes, I suppose I am beautiful now. But it's a fake kind of beauty. I don't see myself looking back out of the mirror - I see a strange face, an unusual face, a face that scares me a little. But I won't cry. I'm not going to cry in front of _her_. I have to hold myself together. I can do it. I look at my new self in the mirror, draw myself up, and lift my chin. I can do this.

_That's it! Wonderful. You look great. Now you just need a name._

I always kind of liked Sarah. It's just kind of simple and pretty. Maybe she'll let me…?

_Nonono! Sarah is too plain. There are lots of girls named Sarah! You need something unusual and pretty! Like pick some cool noun! And then change the spelling, and you'll have a really pretty name!_

I laugh cynically. How about Memorie? That should certainly be hard to forget.

_Stop being so sarcastic. But yes, Memorie's lovely._

I take a deep breath. Well, I said I'd keep my chin up, and that's what I plan to do.


	2. Chapter 1

Princess Memorie woke up in her room in Rivendell, home of the elves, and sat up, tossing her long, silky silver hair over her shoulder.

WAIT ONE DAMN MINUTE. Who wrote that?

_Who do you think? And you really need to stop cursing._

Okay, for one thing, I do not just "wake up". Perhaps something like "Memorie was awakened by the annoying drone of her alarm, grabbed the first blunt object that her fingers encountered, and smashed the stupid thing before going back to sleep for another two hours".

_Absolutely not. Elven princesses do not—_

I'm not finished yet! For another, I do not "toss" my hair. There is no practical reason to "toss" one's hair, and it's one of those things that girls do all the time in stories and almost never in real life. But before I start ranting about that, my third problem: aren't you forgetting the part where we make up my background and everything?

_I've already made it up._

I should be used to this by now, and I should be keeping my cool better, but I have to admit that makes me mad. How can she have made up _my_ back story without even _telling_ me?

_My gosh, you're argumentative. If you really want to know, I'll tell you. First of all, both of your parents were elves._

Greeeeaaaat. Elves. My favorite people. But I guess I could put up with even elves if they were my parents and loved me. But "were"? What are they now? Artichokes?

_They're dead. They died protecting you from Sauron when you were a baby._

Half-dreams, half-dreams floating in my head of hugs and bedtime stories and lullabies, of good advice, shoulders to cry on, a source of support - gone. Gone with her words. How can she kill them? How can she possibly kill them? They're people, aren't they? They would love me, love my frizzy orange hair, love my fascination with medieval weaponry, love my - okay, so maybe they wouldn't love my profanity. But they'd forgive me for it. That's what parents are for, right? For being your voice of reason and helping you with your homework and loving you unconditionally, even with all your little flaws and oddities?

_You want parents so they can give you _advice_ and help you with your _homework?_ Are you even aware of just how boring a story about homework would be?_

The story doesn't have to be about homework! Maybe I set out on a quest, and my parents are so worried about my safety that they decide to go with me? It could be funny! Like if we're staying at an inn, and some guy starts hitting on me, and my dad beats him up?

_Memorie, I'm trying to make you an interesting character. Making you an orphan will make you more interesting._

But if I'm an orphan, who raised me?

_Elrond. He took you in as his own daughter._

That doesn't make sense. Doesn't he have the fate of the world to worry about? If I was him, I would've just given me to some other elves or something. He already has kids.

_Stop whining, would you? We've already wasted a whole page. Enough talking. We're starting. Now._

Before I have time to protest, I'm in Rivendell, in a room. I wish I could tell you what kind of room, but noooo, she hasn't bothered to describe it except that it's "pretty". A soft white carpet? Don't ask me. A skylight letting in beams of sunlight? Anyone's guess. A solid gold go-cart with a built-in snow cone machine? Could be, for all anyone knows.

Before I have time to adequately consider just how cool it would be to own a solid gold go-cart with a built-in snow cone machine (or realize that, sadly, I'll find neither go-carts nor snow cones in Middle Earth), I'm interrupted by an elf (Augh! Elves! I can't stand them!) who tells me that "my father summons me".

Who the hell…? Oh yeah, Elrond.

As I follow the stupid elf through the halls, I take a moment to think. Now, you have to understand, patience isn't my strong suit. Far from it. I'm not a particularly generous person, so it takes a lot of willpower not just to give up and decide to hate everyone. But then I think about it. I'm not that good at being kind, but I could try. I could give everybody at least a chance. If they're stupid or annoying or obnoxious, well, screw them, but I'll at least give them a chance. You cannot imagine what willpower deciding this takes. I'm a horribly judgmental person who finds it hard to be anything but abrasive and cynical in moods like this, but I'll try. I'll show her that being strong isn't about swords - it's about doing things that you have trouble with. Giving the elves a chance makes me stronger than she ever will, and it makes me kind of proud. Maybe I'm an okay person after all. Of course, I still don't think I'm anything extraordinary, but since I don't want much out of life - just a simple, loving family, my husband doesn't have to be a warrior or a prince or even handsome as long as he's nice - and a comfortable place to live - I might have a shot. Maybe I'll find a guy who can put up with me. Maybe a friendly auto mechanic or something - I always liked technical stuff. It's interesting. But oh, wait, I forgot - no cars in Middle Earth.

"Pardon me, my lady - who might you be?"

I look up.

I see an elf looking at me from a doorway with polite curiosity and something like admiration in his eyes. Bright blue eyes. Shimmering golden hair.

OH, GOD, SAVE ME!

The giving-everyone-a-chance plan didn't last long, I reflect, panting, as my mad, stumbling, ungraceful dash carries me into some unidentified room. I slam the door and lean back against it, trying to recover my breath and wait for my heart rate to slow down. I really need to get in better shape, especially if my author expects me to walk all the way across Middle Earth. I'm not much of a runner.

_Wait? Where's Legolas?_

Damn. She found me.

_Where is he?_

Boiling his head, I hope.

_How can you judge him after three seconds? What's wrong with him?_

Nothing, so far, but I'm not taking any chances. I saw the way he was looking at me, and Mr. Showoff Elf-Boy can keep his perfectly manicured hands off of me, thank you very much. And come to think of it, if _she_ likes him, there _must_ be something wrong with him. I can't imagine the two of us liking the same guy.

"You haven't seen Memorie, have you?"

I freeze. It's an older male's voice, outside the door. Then another one speaks, and I can tell by the voice it's Legolas.

"No, she just ran off as soon as I spoke to her. I have no idea why. I didn't do anything except say hello."

"Perhaps she finds you attractive," the voice I'm guessing is Elrond's suggests with a hint of a smile in the tone.

"Perhaps," Legolas laughs. "Shy girls are so charming."

Wait. One. Damn. Minute.

He thinks I find him ATTRACTIVE? He thinks I'm in LOVE with him? BASTARD! Stupid, vain, stuck-up, egotistical _bastard!_ Okay, I have a _perfect_ right to hate him now. Second chances? To hell with second chances. The elves are a bunch of supercilious idiots, and all I want is out of here.

"Lady Memorie?"

It's that elf, back again. He wants me to come to the council. I'm catching hints that my author might send Legolas to look for me if I skip out on it, so I go, planning to get a seat as far from him as possible.

Naturally, this lands me sitting by the dwarves. One of them is telling a funny story, and I try to scoot my chair over to listen, then discover the stupid thing is fixed in the ground. Oh well. He notices I'm paying attention and talks a little louder so I can hear.

When he gets to the punch line, the other dwarves all roar with mirth, and I laugh delightedly, but for some reason my hand comes up to cover my mouth and all that really comes out is a polite giggle. My author again, maybe?

The dwarf, who has friendly, dancing brown eyes and thick brown hair with just the slightest hint of red, finally gets a good look at me. I smile nervously, but to my distress, I see him frown in slight disapproval, run me over with his eyes, then turn back to his companion.

Why are there tears swimming in my eyes? It's not as if I _care_ about these stupid Middle-Earth idiots. I don't _want_ them to like me. I want them to hate me. As a matter of fact, the first chance I get, I'm going to do something mean to that stupid dwarf. That'll show him.

Before I can adequately contemplate my revenge, Elrond's talking, droning on about Mordor or something. What do I care? Until, that is, a few minutes later, when he calls up a small, brown-haired hobbit who puts on the central table the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.

I can tell the eyes of others are on it too - especially that arrogant Gondorian man, damn him - but none are fixed on it so closely as mine. Almost ironic how small it is, how delicate - the smooth golden lines belie the depth of the power hidden in this little thing. With this small piece of jewelry, this little circle of metal almost resembling a wedding band, one could rule the world. _I_ could rule the world. I could even defeat my author - get rid of her, get rid of this stupid story, and create my own world, a world where I'm a master of myself and nobody can force me to do things I don't want to.

I almost laugh out loud, laugh from pure intoxicating exhilaration, the kind only sudden hope and sudden energy can bring on, but I manage to keep myself quiet. A gray-robed, gray-bearded man notices and glances at me shrewdly, and I smile innocently back until he looks away and I can laugh quietly to myself again. Surely my author intends to send me with the Fellowship. Why else would she bring me to the Council? And if I'm with the Fellowship, with it for the months and months it takes to travel, I'll have my chance to take the Ring. I've never been so glad that my author made me beautiful and charming - those stupid men won't know what's hit them, and before they manage to disentangle themselves from the sticky sweet webs I spin around them, I'll be off and free with the Ring on my finger, and my author will wish she'd never set pen to paper and begun this inane narrative.

By the time I bring myself back from my daydreams, everybody's fighting about something. I shake my head and blink just in time to hear Frodo start yelling. He has a surprisingly powerful voice for a hobbit, and everyone shuts up to listen to him. He's volunteering to carry the Ring, and within a dizzyingly short few seconds, he's been joined by a whole group. I have to wonder if they've really considered what they're getting themselves into, or if they're simply caught up in the excitement of the moment and will regret it later.

First is an old wizard, the same one who caught me gloating earlier. I'll have to be careful around him - I can already sense that he doesn't completely trust me, and he's probably too old to fall for my wiles. I'll find a different way to deal with him.

Next to join is the ranger, who shouldn't be too much trouble, and then - I try and fail to suppress a shudder - Legolas, the tall, immaculate, golden-haired elf. He smiles at me, and I squirm uncomfortably. Luckily, he's distracted by the dwarf, who's also joining. I try to catch his eye as he walks up, but he's not looking at me. Angry tears sting my eyes one more time, but I refuse to let them fall. Instead, I watch the human and the three hobbits who have been hiding become the last four members of the Nine Walkers.

At least, that's how it should have been. Once they're all assembled and all standing nicely in a row, Elrond steps forward again and casts his eyes over the remaining members of the council.

"We have Nine Walkers," he says in his booming, sports-announcer voice. Too bad there are no sports in Middle-Earth - imagine the possibilities! Hobbit basketball - it would take _real_ talent to score! Ent golf - let's combine the slowest creatures in the world with the slowest game in the world and see how long we can make it last! Cave-troll football - now come on, who _wouldn't_ want to see that?

But back to a less interesting subject - i.e. Elrond's speech.

"We have Nine Walkers," he announces, "Nine Walkers to set against the Nine Riders. But who, I ask you, shall we set against the One With Dark Wings - The Witch-king of Angmar?"

I blink. I blink again. Wait a moment…

_What's wrong?_

The Witch-king of Angmar.

_What about him?_

Aren't you forgetting something?

_His dragon-thing? Yeah, I'm going to give you some kind of horse or something to be set against that, so it's all even._

But it's not even! Aren't you forgetting that the Witch-king _is_ one of the Nazgûl?"

…

He is!

_What do you mean?_

He's the king of the Nazgûl!

_So…?_

So you're counting him twice!

_I don't understand what you mean._

How can you not understand? It's completely simple! Look: nine riders, _one of which is the Witch-king._ I.e. nine total!

_The Witch-king has that flying dragon thing._

I sigh and attempt to keep my calm. The Witch-king was one of the Nine Riders, but then their horses drown at the ford, and they _all_ get flying dragon things, including him!

_But there are nine Nazgûl, and the Witch-king._

No, there are nine Nazgûl _total_, eight normal ones and _then_ the Witch-king, their leader.

_So you're saying there are only Eight Riders?_

No, there are - oh, screw it!

_Can we move on now?_

Fine. Just fine. Go ahead.

"Who," Elrond asks, "shall we set against the One With Dark Wings - the Witch-king of Angmar?"

"I'll go," I volunteer unenthusiastically, standing and going to join them. Legolas smiles expectantly. I dig my nails into my palms. Gimli frowns slightly. I dig them in deeper. I can feel my author smirking. I dig them in deeper yet. OUCH! I release them, surreptitiously try to rub my palms on the soft fabric of my dress a little, then cross my arms.

"Very well," Elrond says. "I fear for your safety, my dear daughter, but…"

Blah, blah, blah. Fellowship of the Ring. Very nice. The End.

I collapse on my bed, take a deep breath, and try to calm down a little. We're leaving tomorrow morning.

What fun.


	3. Chapter 2

_Note from author - by which I mean the REAL author, Eltea: I apologize for how much time passes between my posts, if anyone is actually waiting for them. I'm in my senior year of high school and don't have much free time, and, in addition, am writing several stories at once. I'll probably keep slowly updating this one, though; I have a few more ideas.  
_

* * *

  
When I wake up the next morning, I don't feel so great. I'm a little nauseated, and the very thought of getting up makes me feel sick. I just want to lie here in this nice, warm bed, curl up under the soft white comforter, and watch a movie. But even as I'm trying to remember whether or not there _are_ any movies in Middle-Earth, I notice the time and groan. I should be meeting the Fellowship to leave now, and I'm still in bed.

I stagger up, rubbing my eyes, wanting to stay in bed but knowing my author will eventually catch me and force me up. Given a choice of a few minutes extra sleep or my dignity, I choose my dignity.

Blearily, I grab a backpack from the closet and start throwing a few things into it - some spare clothes, a hairbrush, a nail clipper, some toothpaste and a toothbrush… I blink, groan, and attempt to clear my head, which feels as though it's filled with cottage cheese. What else will I need? We're going to be gone for a long time, aren't we?

The dresses I've dug up are pretty sheer (what I wouldn't give for a pair of jeans), and it's a big backpack (at least I've got _something_ sensible), so I still have a fair amount of room left. I stuff in a warm blanket and some toilet paper, knowing that we probably won't be staying anywhere halfway hospitable. That reminds me of something else I'll need if our journey is supposed to last several months, and I spend a few minutes digging through cabinets before I have any luck. Apparently, the more practical and realistic what I'm looking for, the harder it is to find. And oh, soap! I grab two bars, still in their wrappers, and shove them into my backpack, which is now nearing full.

I have just a little space left, and I think about filling it with something of sentimental value, then realize that I don't have anything I really care about and that I shouldn't bring anything I'd be sad to lose anyway. Instead, I hunt around the room to see if I can find any money, and, sure enough, there's a small bag of coins in one of the drawers. I might not have the chance to use it, but if I do need it, I'll be kicking myself if I've left it here. Money may not be able to buy everything, but it can come pretty damn close.

I glance around the bathroom, torn between searching the cabinets for anything else that might be useful and going back to bed for the remainder of the blissful few minutes I have free of my author. Before I can decide, though, I hear footsteps. I sigh and glance at the clock. It's actually surprising that they gave me an entire ten minutes before coming to check on me.

"Lady Memorie?"

I turn and see that it's Legolas, standing in the bathroom doorway and smiling. I don't even have the energy to get angry at him, so I just sigh wearily.

"Get out of my bedroom, you pervert."

He looks vaguely hurt, and I don't feel sorry for him. I keep my door closed for a reason, and he could at least have knocked.

"But… Lady Memorie…" he begins.

"Just shut up, okay?" I tell him, a little bitterly now. "I'm coming, all right? So stop bitching at me."

"I'm not—" he begins, but I ignore the rest and push past him, tears in my eyes now. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be going on this stupid journey. I want to be at home, in bed, drinking hot chocolate with my mom sitting at my bedside telling me everything will be okay.

As I storm out to the pavilion where the Fellowship is waiting, looking nonplussed, I see eyebrows rise. I stomp past them, and someone whispers a few words out of which all I catch is "PMS".

"I do _NOT_ have PMS!" I scream, spinning on them hysterically and simultaneously contradicting myself.

"It's all right, Memorie," Frodo says kindly, stepping forward with a little hesitation lest I shout at him as well. "We understand."

I see a few eyes roll behind him, but I calm down a little, slightly mollified. Frodo is one of those quietly nice, little-brother types that you just don't yell at. And in addition, I can't help but feel a sense of nervous excitement and pleasure at being so close to the Ring. I _will_ get it someday, and then I'll smite anyone who dares to say that I have PMS.

When we finally manage to get everything together, we set off. At first, angry energy keeps me storming along at the front, but, within less than an hour's time, I start to lag behind. Walking is not agreeing with me. My legs are getting sore, the heat is making my dress stick to me, and I feel horribly, miserably ill. I'm hungry - should have remembered to eat breakfast, damn - and I just want to lie down in the shade and rest. My legs start to tremble a little, and I grit my teeth, feeling nauseated. The heat is too much - it rolls over me in waves, drowning me, thick and wet and sticky, and I barely have the energy to swat at the small gnat buzzing in circles around my head. I close my eyes and start to daydream about shade and swimming pools and ice-cold lemonade, but, before I know it, I've tripped over something and I'm on the ground.

It feels nice, for a moment, to rest, despite the stinging pain in my head and the choking dust in my eyes, but then the stupid elf is kneeling at my side, touching my arm.

"Lady Memorie, what ails you?"

"My lady? Are you ill?" It's the Ranger.

_No shit, Sherlock._

"Leave me here and let me die," I groan, the nausea in my stomach punctuated by stabbing pains.

"She doesn't sound too well," Frodo worries.

"I'll carry her," Legolas volunteers.

"No," I manage to croak. "I'll walk. Really." I struggle to my knees, put a hand to my aching, spinning head, and vomit water onto the dusty road.

"Oh, dear," Frodo murmurs sympathetically.

"Why don't we set up camp here?" the Ranger suggests, worry in his voice.

"Here? Now?" the wizard sounds incredulous, and I give him a probably-not-very-threatening glare. "We're barely an hour away from Rivendell! When exactly to you plan to arrive at Mount Doom - fifty years from now?"

"Traveling further today isn't worth the lady's health," Legolas insists. A few others chime in their agreement, and the wizard rolls his eyes and agrees. For once, I'm glad that my author has made them all besotted with me. Any intelligent adventurers would realize how much trouble I was going to be and leave me on the road. Any very intelligent adventurers would realize that I might recover and harbor a grudge against them, and would therefore put me out of my misery. Luckily, I'm traveling with a bunch of lovesick morons.

Everyone, that is, except the wizard and the dwarf, who are busy rolling their eyes at the edge of camp and muttering about whether it would have been better to just leave me or to put me out of my misery. The rest of the Fellowship are tripping over each other fetching me blankets and water, and for once, I warm under the care. That is, until Legolas tries to loosen the neck of my dress a little to make me cooler, I tell him to stay the hell away from me, and he goes off to sulk. Most of the others retreat under my glare, and Frodo quickly drapes a wet cloth over my forehead and covers me with a blanket before scampering away to safety.

I still don't feel great, but at least I'm relatively comfortable, and, in the warm, drowsy afternoon sun, I finally doze off.

When I wake up, it's getting towards evening, and I discover that I'm cold. No wonder - I'm wearing a sheer dress, and I've managed to roll out from under the blanket while sleeping. I sit up, shivering, and search for my backpack. Upon finding it, I put another, slightly more substantial dress over the one I'm wearing, then follow it with a coat one of the guys must have left lying around (hopefully whoever it belonged to won't miss it) and a warm cloak.

Much more comfortable, and discovering to my excitement that I don't feel sick anymore, I get to my feet, new energy surging through me, and glance around. Most of the Fellowship is a little ways off, making some kind of dinner around a campfire. When I breathe deeply, I can almost imagine that I smell something warm and spicy, like a barbecue - but no. It's probably just more of that elven bread that tastes like chalk.

A stone's throw away to my other side is a small lake, and I wander over to the water's edge and sit down on a smooth rock, letting my eyes roam over the deep blue of the surface, calm but for a ripple here and there - perhaps a lone fish. A fresh breeze blows off the water, clean and pleasant, and it almost seems as though I can hear a voice whispering something to me, probably some kind of mysterious prophetic message. I ignore it.

Just as I'm letting my eyes climb the distant, snowcapped mountains to the dark ocean of the sky, jumping from one shimmering star to the next and beginning to venture into the dangerous land of bad poetry, I'm interrupted.

"Not hungry?"

I turn with a start and discover that the voice belongs to Gimli, the dwarf. I shrug nervously, though I'm hungry enough to eat a cave troll (eugh - maybe not _that_ desperate), and he frowns a bit.

"I know, my lady, that anorexia is practically a rite of passage for elven girls, but that doesn't mean it's a good idea while journeying, and it doesn't mean that all men find the emaciated, undernourished look attractive."

There are tears spilling out of my eyes almost before I realize that I'm upset, and I'm on my feet, yelling.

"If I'm underfed," I shout hysterically, "it's _your_ fault! You and all the other _morons_ thinking _bread_ makes a good dinner! I'm sick of all of you F-ing bastards, and I'm sick of your F-ing sneers and insinuations, and I want to go home, and I want chocolate ice cream!"

I sit down on the rock and start sobbing. I want a home and a hug and a big scoop of double-fudge ice cream with walnut pieces and chocolate syrup. I don't want to be on this damn quest that I don't even care about.

After a moment of what I can only guess is utter shock at my language, Gimli, to my surprise, comes and sits down next to me, braver than the others, willing to face my moods.

"Well… damn," he remarks after a moment. "I'm sorry. Don't have any chocolate, but they did send me with some sausages in case you were hungry."

I look up in surprise, wiping my eyes with my sleeve and hiccoughing a little, and he hands me a small tin plate with several fat sausages and a slice of bread slathered with melted cheese. I nod eagerly and grab for it, and he laughs, raising an eyebrow in amusement as I pull it in close and begin shoveling down the food.

"Don't make yourself sick," he advises.

Through a full mouth, I mutter at him to shut up, but there's no real anger behind it. His offer of food has pacified me, and I'm willing to forgive him for daring to suggest parting me from my food.

When I finally finish and set the plate aside, he raises his eyebrows admiringly.

"I don't think I've ever seen an elf eat that much," he remarks.

"I'm not a friggin' elf," I mutter, though I'm too contented to be particularly dark. "D'you think I _asked_ to be one?"

Gimli shrugs. "Guess none do, though most of 'em seem pretty content. What _do_ you want to be?"

I consider. Nobody's ever really asked me this before, and I'm not quite sure.

"Well…" I muse, "it might be nice and peaceful to be an Ent… and I don't think I'd mind being a dwarf… but I think, given the choice, I'd most like to be a hobbit. I mean, I can't think of any better life than being in a beautiful countryside where the weather's almost always nice and eating eight meals a day."

"Sounds reasonable," he agrees. "But if you don't like being an elf, why do you dress like one? I mean, I assumed that you had to be a complete airhead to go around wearing friggin' _gowns._ Sorry if it made me a little harsh on you - but if you're not an airhead, why d'you dress like one?"

"It's not my fault!" I complain. "I couldn't find any other clothes! I'd much rather be wearing something sensible. Do you think I _like_ trying to walk in ankle-length dresses?"

"Well, I don't know," he grins. "That sounds like a lot of fun. Someday _I'll_ try walking in an ankle-length dress, or maybe even fighting in one. I'm sure it would be very intimidating."

I laugh, and he smiles in return, seeming relieved to have lightened my mood. I'm about to joke that the sight of him in a dress would probably send every orc in Middle-Earth into hiding when we're interrupted by Frodo.

"Excuse me, Gimli and Memorie…" he interjects nervously.

"Please don't call me Memorie," I interrupt. "I'm not trying to be rude, or anything, but I just really don't like it. Can't you use a nickname, or something?"

"How about shortening it to 'Mem'?" Gimli suggests.

"Sure," I shrug. "That sounds okay."

"All right," Frodo agrees. "Gimli and Mem - well, Mem especially - Legolas sent me to find you."

Ah. So elf-boy is getting smarter and forcing the nice guy to be his go-between. Well, I won't shoot the messenger.

"What does he want?" I ask with what I hope is reasonable politeness.

"I think he and the others want you to sing," Frodo explains.

Sing? _Sing?_ I almost laugh. I don't _sing._ But then a thought strikes me - maybe I do. Maybe my author, in addition to changing my appearance, has changed my voice. It can't hurt to try, can it?

"All right," I agree. Then I have an additional thought and turn to Gimli. "If you'll come, too." I don't want to face them on my own.

"Sure," he promises good-naturedly, rising and stretching. I smile gratefully, then the three of us troop back to where the others are sitting around the campfire.

"Will you honor us with a song, my lady?" Legolas asks. I roll my eyes slightly, then sigh and search my memory (ha, ha, memory, Memorie) for something before realizing that I'm drawing a blank. I glance around nervously to discover nine pairs of eyes on me, then take a deep breath and sing the first thing that comes to mind.

_Happy Birthday to you_

_Happy Birthday to you_

_Happy Birthday, dear… um… someone…_

_Happy Birthday to you_

Goodness, that didn't come out so well - but the Fellowship is applauding rapturously and calling for another song, so I shrug and launch into the ABC's, wondering if it does sound good. But then I glance over and see Gimli trying kindly not to laugh and the wizard covering his ears and wrinkling his nose. Obviously, it's only the ones the author has enchanted that are deluded into liking my off-key warbling. Too bad - I always wished I could sing. Oh, well.

When they demand another song, I begin a very poor rendition of The Song That Never Ends, and, after a few repetitions, they're satisfied, and I can go and sit on the fallen log next to Gimli.

"How was it?" I ask tentatively.

"Awful," he chuckles. "Where'd you learn those songs, anyway?"

I grin. "From your mother."

He looks at me incredulously for a moment before snorting with laughter, and I laugh, too. Is it possible that, trapped on this stupid, miserable, pointless journey, I might actually have found a friend?

That night, I lie quietly watching the sky, the air hung with peaceful silence broken only by the thunderous snores of my companions. A few high-flying wisps of cloud drift by, the stars winking out through the thinnest patches. This evening has been a fairly good one, comparatively. Not great, but fairly good, and I'm fairly contented. At least my author seems to be leaving me alone for now.

_Look, if you're going to lie awake watching the stars, at least weep tragically over something. Heroines aren't supposed to contemplate things _contentedly_, you know. They're sad until the end of the book, and then they're happy. They're never just doing okay - okay is boring._

Well, some things you can change, others you put up with. For now, at least, there's nothing she can do. For now, I'm pretty okay.


End file.
